


The Merc Who's a Mute

by Guardian



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: Blood, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian/pseuds/Guardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade Wilson, Merc With a Mouth, loses his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Written for the [2012 Deadpool Kink Meme](http://wretched-desire.livejournal.com/56077.html).

Prompt: Wade is magically/technologically/anyotherhow temporarily unable to use his throat to speak. Of course this annoys the hell out of him, but everyone else in the Marvelverse enjoys this sweet vacation

~~~

 

**The Merc Who's a Mute**

 

The job was a pretty simple deal. Shoot the guy, collect a sweet amount of G's from the employer.

Except that someone else was already hunting for the very valuable walking bullseye. A guy who went by the name "Bullseye" actually. The dude was ruthless and sadistic, with a juvenile sense of humor. Wade liked him. That's why when they inevitably ended up fighting over who got to kill the mark, Wade didn't maim him too badly.

So this is how it happened. Wade was going through his usual way of riling up his frenemy, taunting Lester about how he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

"You couldn't hit the br—HKK!" and Wade is interrupted by a succession of bullets aimed right at his throat, nearly decapitating him. He drops to his knees, hands going to the bloody mess of icky, too-soft, wtf-just-happened-ness that is now his throat. Wade glares at Bullseye, who is wounded but grinning, and a few seconds later, once Wade is sure that his head wont fall off, he proceeds to pay back the injury by breaking some bones until Bullseye is a crippled mess on the ground.

Wade is nice enough, or cruel enough, to at least dial 9-1-1 for his old pal. He leaves the cellphone by Lester's head.

"I'm gonna get you back for this, Wade," Lester growls at him, despite the horrendous pain.

"I'm gonna go shoot your mark," Wade replies, knowing that it'll annoy Bullseye to no end to know that he essentially _missed_ a potential kill. 

Or, at least, that's what he tries to say, but all that comes out is a weird, airy gurgle that ends with him coughing out a lot of blood.

Bullseye cracks up with laughter.

Wade kicks him in the head and stomps off.

The mark is easy to find, at least for a professional like Wade. He shoots him, and collects his reward. No twists, no double crosses, just a very bad man who deserved what he got and lots of pretty green pieces of paper. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Except that, several hours later, Wade is healed completely but he still can't talk.

He tries. He really does. But no matter how much he tries to scream and shout and let it all out, he can't. Feels like his vocal chords are _stuck_ or something.

If he were a dumb character in a dumb story, Wade wouldn't know what to do. But he's not stupid – he's seen the movies a dozen times. He skips the bullshit and goes right back to the guy who caused all the trouble in the first place. That's the way these things always have to go.

Without his costume, the guy is almost as ugly as Wade. Almost. Wade happily thinks to himself that he's better than Bullseye in every way. Ugly is all wrapped up in bandages and splints and hooked to an IV drip. He gets all tense and angry when he sees Wade.

"What the hell do you want?"

Wade tries to respond, but the words choke in his throat. He flails his hands angrily and points at his neck.

"You still can't talk?" Lester's eyes widen with disbelief and then he bursts into laughter. For a long time. _He won't freaking shut up!_   Wade has to start punching him in the stomach to make him stop. "Hahaha, geez, Wade," Lester cackles. "I don't feel so bad about losing my contract now. The silence is priceless."

Wade rolls his eyes and punches Lester in the gut again, making him grunt and let out another harsh laugh.

"Did you cash in?" Lester asks. Wade nods. "Good for you. Hah. So what the hell are you gonna do to fix your voice?"

Wade pulls a knife out of his harness. He looks around and spots a whiteboard that has the names of nurses written on it. He rubs off all the writing and grabs a board marker.

STAB ME, he writes, gestures wildly at the message and then makes a stabbing motion at his neck. He goes to give Lester the knife, eager as a puppy.

Lester refuses to take the knife. "No way," he says. "As much as I love stabbing you, I'm not gonna risk fixing this."

Wade stamps his foot in outrage and tries to make Lester take the knife.

"No," he says again, shaking his head. "Not gonna be me. I'll see you when I get out, buddy."

Wade sighs loudly and considers stabbing Lester just for spite, but ends up stomping off, slamming the door in his wake. Of course Bullseye would refuse to stab his pal. The jerk! If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.

So Wade goes home and does the job himself, in the mirror. He tries cutting carefully first, then tries wild stabbing. Twice he blacks out from blood loss, and would have died if not for the miraculous healing factor that keeps him alive and kicking. But that healing factor has miraculously fucked up because no matter what he does, he can't get his voice back. In fact, he only succeeds in making it impossible to breathe for a scary half a minute. In the end, his bathroom is trashed and the self-mutilation gets him nowhere. 

He needs _help_.

 

~~~

 

"Y-you want me to what?"

Wade blinks, then sighs and points again at the little whiteboard he bought, which reads, STAB ME IN THE NECK. Bob knows how to _read_ , right?

"Is this a trick, Mr.Wilson?" Bob questions, holding the knife that Wade gave him like it's a venomous snake. "I-I don't want to stab you!"

Wade tries to growl in annoyance, but of course makes no sound. He rubs the whiteboard with his elbow and writes furiously. Goddamn Bob, needing exposition.

MY STUPID NECK HEALED WRONG. CAN'T TALK.

Bob stares at the board, then at Wade, and then back at the board again until he's convinced that Wade is serious. "You got a neck injury a-and now you can't talk?" Wade nods vehemently. "Geez, that's awful Mr. Wilson..."

Wade rubs the board again and writes.

STAB ME MIGHT FIX ME.

"Might?!" Bob repeats, tremulous again. "I'm not a doctor, Mr. Wilson! What if you die?"

Wade gives him a 'duh' expression.

"Oh right. B-but, maybe I'll make it worse," Bob continues. "You need someone who knows human anatomy!"

Wade scowls and jabs Bob in the shoulder with his finger repeatedly, trying to get the point across. Bob whimpers and whines and keeps pleading with Wade to find a doctor. All the while, Wade keeps poking him viciously. Finally, Bob lifts a timid hand and _pokes_ the knife into Wade's neck. Leaves the blade in there and runs away, shrieking apologies.

Wade pulls the knife out and tosses it away, annoyed and disappointed. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that Bob didn't make a very good minion at all.

The wound quickly heals, and of course the pathetic little stab didn't fix anything. It barely even tickled.

Wade wanders the city for the rest of the day, thinking about his predicament. For a long while, he considers shooting himself in the throat to recreate the injury Lester had first inflicted on him. But after a bit of thought, Wade realizes that this would only add more damage if anything, maybe irreversible damage. And that really isn't fair, because he's been shot and stabbed in the throat hundreds of times before with exactly the same goal - to make him shut up for just a second. He's even been decapitated and had his neck broken in the past, and this has never happened before.

Finally, Wade concludes that perhaps Bob was right. He needs a doctor. Or as close to a doctor a guy like him can find. Instead of hacking stabs, he needs someone who can slice his throat in a clean cut. Maybe then things will finally heal correctly. Wade bounces on his toes because he knows just the guy who'd love to claw his head off.

 

x


	2. Chapter 2

Three hours later, Wade finds his short, hairy, angry friend Wolverine out on a mission. Good ol' Wolvie is in some sort of old warehouse, and there's a faction of evil, anti-mutant, blah blah blah, dangerous technology, blah blah, boring complicated villain that fucks up everything for the readers just trying to have a good time. Why can't these stories ever skip the llama drama and just get to the hot sweaty sex? That's what the readers want! Then again, maybe nobody wanted to see hairy old man Logan doing the Hokey Pokey. Poor guy.

Wade politely waits for Wolverine to finish his menacing dialogue with Bad Guy #3,095, but he gets bored and drops out of the rafters, coldcocking the villain in the head. End scene.

"Damn it, Wilson," Logan snarls, his fists clenching. "I was hoping you were smart enough to stay out of this one." Because of course Wolvie had known he was there the whole time. There was no way that Logan _hadn't_ smelled him from a mile off with his super sniffer. "The hell do you want?"

He _could_ just ask, but the risk of being rejected again is too high. Wade goes with his confrontational option. He pulls out his katanas and starts trying to fight Wolverine, cutting only deep enough to draw blood and piss Logan off, and leaving his neck wide open for attack.

Logan stabs Wade in the chest repeatedly until the mercenary crumples to the ground, then stalks off, muttering curses under his breath.

For fuck's sake, what does it take for a guy to get decapitated?!

Wade scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can, still sputtering blood and staggering as he chases down Logan. He jumps in front of him, trying to make him stop, and gets shoved aside for his efforts.

"Fuck off, Wade, or I'll make a necklace out of your lower intestines," Logan snarls at him.

Wade flails his arms in a wild gesture for Logan to stop, and grabs the stupid white board from the make-shift sling over his back. It has blood stains on it. Goddamn it Wolverine.

HELP ME, Wade writes on the board. Simple and dramatic. He has to shove it in Wolverine's face several times before the big jerk finally pays attention to it.

"Help you?" Logan snorts. "For what?" He pauses, eyes narrowed at Wade while the gears turn in his head. "You haven't said a word. Is that the problem, Wilson? You can't talk?"

Wade nods vigorously. Logan laughs at the irony, and Wade gives him the most pitiful expression he can manage until Logan stops.

"For a chatterbox like you, it must be killing ya," Logan comments. "Let me guess – you got your head lopped off or something, and it healed wrong."

Wade nods again, bouncing excitedly on the balls on his feet. Wolverine is so smart, he could just _kiss_ him.

"'s like if you break a bone and don't set the it right – it'll heal all wrong. You have to break it again to fix it," Logan continues, thoughtful. He smirks at Wade, stalks around him, sizing him up and enjoying the silence. "So what do you want me to do? Cut your head off for you?"

Wade nods once more, and Logan chuckles, greatly amused.

"As much as I'd love that... why should I _help_ you? You've finally shut up for once in your life. I should savor this forever."

Wade scrunches his face up and writes on the board again. YOU'RE A GOOD GUY, Wade scrawls out. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HELP.

"You ain't exactly a great person, Wilson," Logan reminds him. "I'm not obligated to do a thing for ya."

...What? But without Logan's help...

Wade lowers the whiteboard, and visibly slumps. There are tons of other heroes and villains who could slice off his head, sure, but after Wolverine, the list rapidly narrows and Wade just isn't sure that he can get them to specifically attack his neck without explaining, and once he does explain they'd probably refuse to touch him, laughing all the while. The whole Marvel universe has been waiting for Wade Wilson to finally shut his yap.

"But it's too weird," Logan adds, with a sigh. "Just isn't right. Alright, hold still."

Wade inwardly squeals with delight, and outwardly flings his arms around Logan for a hug.

"Wilson – damn it – okay, okay. Get off me before I change my mind," Logan grumbles, pushing Wade away. The mercenary relents and stands still, though he's all aflutter with joy and anticipation. Not only is Wolvie going to help him, but he's going to ' ** _snikt'_ ** him again. Wade can't help but smile. Logan smiles too. He unsheathes his claws – **_snikt!_** – and takes Wade's head off with a clean swipe.

 

~~~

 

Logan is very accommodating, considering that fixing Wade means he'll have his ears talked off. He decapitates Wade twice, putting the head back each time and crouching beside him while he waits for Wilson to heal. But each time is a failure. Wade only manages to make one awkward noise and then falls silent again. Nothing will come out.

Silence. All silence.

He can't talk, and the worst part is that since _he_ can't talk, the little boxes can't talk either. He can't hear them anymore – he's all alone in his head and it's really, really terrible.

Wade sits up and holds his head in his hands. He wants to cry when Logan actually takes pity on him, patting his shoulder.

"Somebody can fix ya, I'm sure," Logan says. "But you need more than a simple hack job. I ain't known for my delicate touch." He pauses for a long time, thinking. Wade is thinking, too – thinking about all the witty one-liners he won't be able to get out, because there's nothing witty about writing them out on a dumb whiteboard or paper in the middle of a fight. And how will he enjoy TV if he can't yell at the screen? How will he sing in the shower? How will he annoy people for fun if ignoring him is as simple as not reading what he writes?

"Maybe your boyfriend can help," Logan suggests, interrupting Wade's despair.

The "boyfriend" comment is meant to be a playful jab, but it goes over his head. Wade gives Logan a curious look, wondering how _Nate_ could possibly fix this. Last he checked, Nate didn't have any magical healing powers. Then again, he _did_ have...

"He's got doctors on that island of his, right? And the guy actually gives a damn about you – that'll go a long way in itself."

Wade thinks about this for half a second and then leaps on Logan with a big hug. Logan grunts and growls and makes a face, and manages to peel Wade off of him a minute later.

"Good luck, Wilson," Logan says, walking off with what remains of his rugged personality. "Smell ya later."

Wade snorts softly and strikes a heroic pose, finding renewed hope. It's time to go see his old pal, Nate. If anyone can help, it's him.

Wade opens his mouth... and remembers that the body-slide is voice command. That means no teleport for Wade. Freaking rotten future technology!

 

~~

It takes a long time to get to Providence the old fashioned way. Wade arrives by boat in the morning, exhausted and moody. When he steps onto Providence's artificial shores, there's an overwhelming sense of relief. The ocean water glitters around the floating island in the morning light. The sky is still pink with sunrise, and the buildings are shiny and promising. Everything on the island feels like it's been hand-made by Nathan himself. If anyone can help, he can.

This early hour of the day is surreal to Wade, as is going into any place without weapons – and his voice was his favorite weapon. It's the first time that he can't snap back when people stare at him on the street. Can't crack a joke or sing that Katy Perry song so it will finally get out of his freaking head. In all, he feels a little crazier than usual. It's worse than being in a padded room.

Fortunately for Wade, it isn't too early for the island to already be awake. He goes to Nate's building and, in the silence, is able to find the Mutant Messiah in a meeting just by following the murmur of voices.

The doors are loud when they open, and unable to follow up his entrance with something wild and obnoxious, Wade feels more obtrusive than ever. A quick glance around the room – Nate and Irene are present, of course, and Prestor John is standing off to the side of the room as if he's a bodyguard, like Nate would even need one. There are a few other people in the room, seated around the table. They look like diplomats and world leaders. At least he isn't interrupting anything important, then.

"Wade," Nate stands up, as if to greet his friend, but they both know that Nate is just getting ready to fight if need be. It's kinda cool that Nate already knows how prone Wade is to attracting physical confrontation. Seriously, Wade is so magnetic to violence, one time he went out to get a carton of milk and ended up involved in a mob turf war. Another time, he nearly destroyed the entire universe by accident, just because he had a cold and sneezed on the wrong alien. True story.

"We're in a meeting," Miss State-The-Obvious Irene pipes in, rocking the naughty librarian look with her hair pulled back, glasses on, and a pencil tucked behind her ear. A very sexy pencil.

This is the part where Wade would normally call her a name or make some other scathing reply. Instead, Wade just barely manages to express his annoyance by ignoring her, stomping over to Nate and forcefully unrumpling a note that he had written in advance on the boat.

_Nate – I've gone all Little Mermaid and seriously need a Prince Eric_

Okay... that note made a lot more sense in the first few drafts. Wade can see Nate's confused frown, and he's pretty confused, too. What kind of decent mutant being hasn't seen The Little Mermaid? Damn time travelers. He grabs a pen and quickly amends the note, writing "Help" over and over again. He's still scrawling while Nate orders everyone to leave.

The suits file out the door, angry even as Nate sees them out with apologies and promises of rescheduling. Wade doesn't care. His hand is shaking when he finally drops the pen and sinks into Nate's vacated seat.

Finally. Wade feels relieved again for all of two seconds, and then uncertainty fills his stomach like piranha. Funny thing is, Wade knows exactly what it feels like to have piranha eating your stomach. And this is it. He's got Nate's attention, but he realizes this isn't the end of his problem at all. What can Nate actually _do_ about it? ...What if there's nothing _to_ do?

x


	3. Chapter 3

"What the hell is this all about?" Irene demands to know, folding her arms. Because when Nate orders everyone to leave, Irene automatically considers herself excluded. She glares at Wade first, then at Nate, unaware that Nate still has no idea whatsoever.

"Wade?" Nate asks, infinitely more patient as he approaches his friend again. "What's going on?"

Wade frowns, feeling annoyed and embarrassed to pick up a pen and write the answer. But he does. He has to.

"What's the big secret?" Irene asks, equally annoyed as a reporter to be out of the loop.

"He says he can't speak," Nate says, relaying the message.

Irene snorts. "That's it?"

Wade nods, angry, and Irene starts laughing while Nate's forehead scrunches up with deep thought and concern.

"I wouldn't believe it, but you don't have a shred of self-control to be faking," Irene says. "The Merc With a Mouth... now it's the Merc Who's a Mute. Can't be laryngitis because you never get sick. So how long is this supposed to last?" She pauses for an answer, and sees it in Wade's unsettled expression. "Oh my god." She covers her mouth and then bursts into laughter again. "No way. I'm sorry, but this is the best news I've heard in weeks. No – the best news ever. No more 'yo mama' jokes or stupid pop culture references or running commentaries about which Avenger would look best in the nude? This is heaven. I hope this lasts forever."

Wade crumbles up the paper and throws it at her, lamely hitting Irene in the shoulder before Nate can block him. "Stop it, Wade," Nate says, successfully preventing Wade from going for a pen next.

Irene glances down and kicks the paper projectile away. "I'm gonna go get coffee to celebrate. If you want to take my advice, Nathan, don't bother trying to fix him. This really must be divine punishment if I've ever seen it. At least let him suffer for a while – give the rest of us a break."

She leaves just before Wade can hurl a stapler at her.

"Wade, stop," Nate catches the other man's wrists again and tries to focus him. "Don't listen to her. I'm going to help. I just need to understand what happened. Was this an injury? Spell? Mutant power?"

Wade retrieves his handy-dandy whiteboard and tells Nate everything he knows, including what he's done to try fixing the problem, with no success. Nate listens - or reads, rather - with unwavering patience while Wade grows frustrated at his slow, limited form of communication.

SO CAN YOU FIX ME OR WHAT? Wade finally writes.

"I honestly have no idea," Nate responds.

Wade flings his hands up, clutching at the air, furious and pleading.

"You need to be looked at first," Nate explains patiently, bringing his hands up to try to soothe Wade's fists. "By a doctor. A surgeon, even. I can get you to see one by tomorrow. They'll be able to tell us what we can do."

Tomorrow?! It's outrageous. And Wade really doesn't want to see a doctor/surgeon/specialist/whatever, even though it's kind of what he came here for in the first place. Now it sounds kinda... bad, actually. It sounds like hospital gowns and invasive exams and bad news. Sounds like cancer all over again. And fixing it sounds like experimental surgery and pain and disfigurement and Weapon X.

Wade doesn't realize that he's buried his head into his hands until Nate forces him to uncurl and gently pulls him to his feet.

"It'll be fine," Nate assures him in that damn soothing Charlton Heston voice, and the way Nate's eyes silently implore him to believe what he says, Wade knows he has no other choice.

"You've traveled all night, haven't you?" Nate guesses correctly. "Can you still eat food? Do you want breakfast... Mexican?"

Wade nods in eager agreement to all of the questions and squeezes Nate in a tight but brief hug to express his thanks. They set out on foot – Wade in the lead but nervously turning and walking backwards now and then to make sure Nate is still with him. Mexican food for breakfast is almost too good to be true. He clutches and drums on his stomach theatrically.

"Here okay?" Nathan questions, stopping at the first restaurant. Wade scowls and shakes his head and stamps his foot down when Nate tries to suggest that it's the same thing. 'Cause it's not. This place is not one of the authentic fake processed Mexican-American temples of greasy delicious meatpaste, it's one of the gross 'healthy' restaurants that the hippies on the island wanted. And furthermore, it won't serve the best part of the menu so early in the day. And Wade may or may not already be permanently banned from this particular establishment.

So Wade grabs Nate's arm and makes him walk a lot further until they reach the right place. There's no mistaking it when they arrive – Wade grins like a loon and skips inside like a little kid. The restaurant has obviously just opened – there are a few employees warming up the kitchen and another mopping the floor. Wade demands their attention by pounding his fist on a metal counter.

Nate apologizes profusely, pulling Wade back to make him stop, and gazes up at the illuminated menu. He immediately recognizes the extent of Wade's frustrations, because the mercenary can't place his order. This realization doesn't seem to phase Wade. He points a lot and nods when Nate asks him to confirm what he wants. Nate asks Wade what size drink he wants, to which Wade replies with an exaggerated hand gesture.

It's like a game of charades, and Nate is actually doing well and Wade actually seems entertained. Confusingly enough, Wade wants to order more than one thing – tacos _and_ burritos _and_ chimichangas _and_ enchiladas – but Wade finally stops kicking Nate in the shins when he asks if that's everything. By the time the order is placed, Nate can feel a bruise forming, but Wade has a blissful grin on his face and maybe just a bit of drool.

Nate gives the staff an apologetic smile while he waits for the food, and Wade scrambles off to find a seat – a booth actually – and proceeds to make fart noises on the fake plastic leather until Nate brings their food over ten minutes later.

"Here you go," Nate says, and splits up the meal, pushing Wade's orders towards the mercenary. He only ordered an omelet for himself, but Wade thrusts some of his food towards Nate, unrelenting until Nate partakes in the binge.

"How many days has it been?" Nate asks after a few bites. He feels full already, but keeps nibbling so that Wade will focus on cramming food into his own mouth. The other man can afford to eat so much.

Wade shrugs at first and then holds up three fingers, and Nate nods in understanding. Suddenly, Wade flails his hands and grabs one of the wrappers littering the table, jabbing his finger at it.

Nate frowns.

Wade thrusts the wrapper close to Nate's face, points at his eyes and then back to the wrapper. More precisely, he points at a word on the wrapper.

"Chimichanga?" Nate asks.

Wade nods and grins, and then points at the word again.

"You have one, Wade," Nate reminds him, beginning to reach for the food, but Wade shakes his head and points at the word again. "I don't understand."

Wade's other hand shoots out across the table, a gloved finger resting on Nate's lips. It's greasy and smells like hot sauce. Then he withdraws his hand, holding it in the air and making a talking hand-puppet motion, then points at the word again.

"Chimichanga?"

Wade nods and claps his hands together, then makes the talking hand-puppet motion again.

"Chimichanga," Nate repeats, to Wade's intense joy. He repeats the word until Wade beats on the table in silent laughter, only his breathy gasps for air audible. Nate shakes his head. "You're too easily amused, Wade," he chides lightly, then discreetly licks his lips to rid himself of the lingering touch from Wade. Instead he detects the subtle traces of hot sauce, and for the rest of the meal it's all he can taste.

 

~~~~

 

When they return from breakfast, Nate calls and leaves a message with his trusted doctors to schedule an appointment. Wade's good mood evaporates instantly. He's on pins and needles. He's angry. He glares at Nate and paces the floor and can't seem to look at his friend and fidgets endlessly.

"Wade?" Nate asks as soon as he hangs up. "Are you in pain?"

Wade shakes his head and won't stop his restless pacing. At first Nate thinks he's panting, but quickly realizes that Wade is trying uselessly to talk, and his missing method of coping is only raising his stress.

"Tell me what's wrong," Nate urges, fetching a large notepad and pen and pushing them at Wade.

Wade wrings his hands and glares at Nate with bright eyes and loathing. He grabs the pen and scrawls.

I HATE DOCTORS.

"It's just an exam, for starters," Nate tries to reason. "Just to see exactly what the problem is so we know how to fix it."

 **I HATE DOCTORS** , Wade writes again, the pen's tip nearly ripping the paper as he grinds it down. He won't look at Nate anymore, and he keeps clenching his fists to disguise the fact that his hands are shaking.

"I don't understand," Nate's voice is beseeching, but it annoys Wade to no end.

CANCER, Wade scribbles furiously, nearly illegible. WEAPON X. KILLEBREW.

He keeps adding words, but after a quick search on the Infonet, Nathan grabs Wade's hands to make him stop. The information that comes up is sketchy, but anything Nate can find is dark, gruesome, inhumane, and implies far worse. Human and mutant experimentation. Mass graves. He avoids hacking any further because he doesn't want to know what sort of experiments were done on Wade. He feels guilty that Wade can't do the same. He lived through it already.

"It's not Weapon X," Nate says. Wade won't stop staring down at the words he's written, so Nate rips off the page and crumbles it, tossing it away. "You're never going back to Weapon X or anything like it, do you hear me Wade? You're going to see the doctors that are on _my_ staff team and we aren't doing anything until we figure out an option that you're okay with. Even if I have to magically heal you, I'll figure it out. I'd miss hearing that gravely Demi Moore voice," he adds, and he can mentally hear Wade correcting his pronunciation.  _I'm pretty sure it's De- **mee.**_

Wade doesn't do anything, just slowly fiddles with the pen and radiates doubt. But he doesn't pull away when Nate closes the distance between them, trying to make Wade believe by touching Wade's shoulders – (his hands are so huge and warm and having Nate on his side makes him feel so _safe_ ) – and lifting Wade's chin so the mercenary can't hide his eyes – (how could someone as strong as Wade have such fearful eyes?)

"Trust me?" Nate asks. He can't help but notice that Wade still manages to avoid looking at him directly... the other man is staring at his lips instead.

The door creaks open, and Irene pokes her head in to stare at them. "Am I interrupting a moment? Because I can just-"

Nate opens his mouth to agree and tell her to come back later, but his hands are already empty – Wade climbs over the back of the couch, flops onto it and cranks the volume on the TV. "Uh, no," Nate decides, awkwardly rubbing his palms against his pants. "What's the news?"

They go over recent events, updates on politics, but there isn't much that's actually new or remotely important. Not compared to more pressing matters. Nate keeps an eye on Wade the whole time, but he never moves from the couch. Occasionally his shoulders shake with silent laughter and Nate takes that as a good sign. Nevertheless, when the medical department calls back to schedule, Nate takes the call outside where Wade won't hear. He only mentions it later when he puts the office work aside for the night and joins Wade on the couch.

"You have an appointment for nine tomorrow," Nate says as he settles on the cushions. "Yes, in the morning," he adds, to Wade's whining expression.

Wade stares at the TV again, but even in profile, Nate can tell that Wade is all criss-crossed with anxiety.

"It'll be fine," Nate adds. "It's a very select staff. You'll only see the ones I trust. The only ones I allow to give _me_ treatment."

Wade's hand reaches out and snags onto Nate's in a crushing grip, and although his eyes stay straight ahead, he isn't watching the TV anymore. He's not even doing a good job of pretending. Just that hand makes Nate's stomach sort of tie itself up in knots. He immediately wonders if this is their strange attraction, their relationship finally manifesting itself in little ways. But before he even completes the thought, he knows that it's a foolish one. This isn't them sitting on the couch holding hands, nor will it ever be in the future simply because they aren't wired that way. The bond _is_ there, though. Simple, strong, undeniable. But they aren't the types to ever display little intimacies. Nate is too busy with his important goals – Wade is too impatient and wild.

No, this is just Wade communicating the only way he currently can – physically. And the body language might be even better than the verbal was, because Nate can read levels in the way that Wade is squeezing his hands in a vice grip. No, this isn't the light, comfortable touch of a potential lover, this is a desperate plea from his friend.

"I'll go with you," Nate promises. And then, in case he read Wade wrong – "If you want me to."

Wade looks surprised for a moment, then relieved and tackles Nate with an exaggerated hug that just screams, 'You are my very BESTEST friend'. A second later he calms down, leans his head against Nate's shoulder affectionately... and seems to decide that it's more comfortable watching TV from that position.

Nate assumes that the fact that Wade is still holding onto his hand is just more anxiety. Wade absently rubbing his thumb against Nate's wrist... Just anxiety.

 

x


	4. Chapter 4

The sterile white hospital room immediately sends Wade into a bad head space. But Nate is there, and just his warm presence and matter-of-fact tone are enough to keep Wade from sinking too far into nightmarish thoughts.

The doctor's hands are icy cold on his skin. He feels and pokes at Wade's neck and asks yes or no questions as much as possible. He tries to get Wade to take off his mask, but Wade only rolls it up far enough so they can check inside his mouth. They want the standard blood samples and x-rays and also a bunch of non-standard things that sound like they came out of science fiction books. Thankfully (or maybe regretfully) none of them involve being probed. Aside from the probe they put down his throat, of course, but that isn't the same thing.

All of this very serious feeling-up and taking vital signs takes forever, but waiting for the results is a tedious hell. Wade eats 16 lollipops while he waits, but only because Nate won't let him hop onto the doc's computer to look at porn. Wade wonders if they'll eventually come back into the room and tell him he has cancer.

Joking aside, the doctors finally do come up with a diagnosis, or at least a theory. The gunshots fired into his neck created so much tissue damage that internal things got rearranged. His healing factor tackled his air and food tubes alright, but the vocal chords went missing in action.

Of course, that was the gist of what the doctors said, after Nathan explained it to Wade a few more times. Now they have to decide how to fix it.

Cutting his head off and letting it grow back is a bad plan – Wade can't be sure what kind of continuity he's working with right now. Sometimes the healing factor deals with decapitation no problem, especially if he's in one of his suicidal plot arcs (Look, he can't even die right! Haha, big laughs all around.) But other times his healing factor craps out or a writer decides that decapitation can kill him, just to spike up the drama.

So the safest choice is to let them slice him open and try to straighten everything out. It's simple, little risk at all, but the idea of surgery sets Wade on pins. Getting clawed by Wolverine, or stabbed by an incompetent friend? No biggie. But being drugged up on an operating table and letting some guy with a white coat and a scalpel do whatever he wants to you while you're unconscious? Serious fucking heebie jeebies, to put it mildly. But it's not like Wade has a better option, so all he can do is try not to freak out while Nate makes all the arrangements for him. When the time comes, Nate might have to hold him down, too, because already Wade has the urge to just bolt.

"It'll be fine," Nate assures Wade, as if he could read his mind. Friggin telepaths! Then again, Wade has been wearing grooves into the hallway from all his pacing, and he's frowning so hard, his _mask_ probably has worry lines. He's not exactly maintaining his usual manly illusion of unflappable devil-may-care attitude.

Wade makes himself stand still and stares at Nate expectantly.

"The surgery is in two days," Nate says. "It's minor," he adds when Wade cringes and turns away, pacing again.

But Wade is flustered. Upset. Disturbed. Other synonyms. He's inconsolable. Doctors are the worst and they can't be trusted and there's nothing that Nate could say to possibly make this-

His hand is warm suddenly, because Nate is holding it, and his thumb is stroking gently and so soothingly over the back of Wade's hand and just that little touch makes Wade feel all tingly and Nate squeezes him a little too firmly and doesn't let go.

Oh.

 _Oh._ Okay. This is okay now.

"Let's get something to eat," Nate suggests.

Very okay.

 

~~~

 

Wade is bored. And he doesn't want to watch TV. This is an impossible and dangerous combination, and Nate is at a loss for how to entertain him. From Wade's wild gestures, he can guess that Wade wants to ride around the island on Nate's back like a spider monkey. Nate ignores that idea, because he has way too much paperwork and important news to deal with (things around Rumekistan are heating up because humanity will never freaking learn how to just calm the fuck down and get along with one another...) And also, because it's a ridiculous idea and if he gives Wade an inch, the tricky devil will take seven miles.

So Wade is creeping around the office while Nate tries to work. He'd say that Wade's inability to chatter was a bonus in this situation, but it's actually worse. The mercenary finds other ways to disrupt his focus, like when Wade flops across the desk like a cat, rolling around and completely destroying Nate's little organized piles of paper. And he doesn't get down until Nate orders him a pizza and even then Nate has to beat him away with the phone receiver.

The extra large pizza lasts about fifteen minutes, and only because Wade spends part of that time pretending the pizza is a spaceship or something. Nate gets two slices out of it and Wade devours the rest... even the piece that fell onto the floor but he ate anyway when he thought Nate wasn't paying attention. Nate counts himself lucky that Wade shared at all, and it would've been okay if he hadn't because Nate really doesn't have the same high metabolism that Wade does.

But high metabolism also comes with low attention span, because Wade is bored again.

The stapler is Wade's new distraction. He somehow staples his hand to his face by accident. Nate watches this out of the corner of his eye, still intent on those reports, while Wade flails one arm around wildly and then attempts to separate himself with a spatula.

Ten minutes later, Wade is freed and his costume is torn. He sighs loudly, a pout forming under his mask while he picks at the holes in his costume. Not that Nate is watching – he really isn't. And then Wade leaves the office.

Gone? Really? Nate waits a minute, and tries to listen for the sounds of tell-tale Deadpool Destruction™. Nothing. The building is totally silent. Nate frowns, but reminds himself that he can fully focus on the papers now. Papers that he just realized he hadn't actually been reading at _all_ while Wade was in the room.

Nate scratches his head and starts over, resigned. The situation in Rumekistan is a little more heated than he thought. He'll have to personally go out to secure the bordering territories and investigate the status of some so-called terrorist camps. He can bring Wade along. It'll give the mercenary something to do, and honestly Wade is the best fighter he has on his side right now. He's incredibly skilled, and his healing factor makes him a non-risk for fatality. A little hard to control, of course, but Nate is sure that if he gives Wade his sternest-

The office door opens again, and Wade is back. His costume is gone, even his mask, and the rare sight of Wade's bare skin makes Nate go completely still. The mercenary is dressed only in a loose-fitting pair of Hulk boxers and a red t-shirt, with a thin book tucked under his arm and a small box of something in his hand.

Wade glances at Nate as he walks into the room, and then proceeds to do his own thing, settling down in the middle of the floor until he's sprawled out on his belly. Then, very seriously, he sets the box and the book in front of him, opens them... and starts coloring.

After a long moment, Nate realizes he's staring and goes back to his work. He can just see Wade whenever he glances up, and he keeps looking up every few seconds or so, as if convinced that Wade might disappear because he's so damn quiet. The silence should be strange, but Wade has a look of intense concentration on his face. He narrows his eyes and bites his lip while he scribbles. Every time Wade twitches Nate swears he can mentally hear the mercenary cursing and lamenting about how hard it is to stay inside the lines. And Nate knows this presumption is right, because after about five or so of these twitches, Wade madly scribbles on the page and rips it off.

And then calmly starts on a new one, focused once again.

Seeing Wade so relaxed is a privilege that Nate is well aware of. He can't help but keep sneaking glances at Wade. Not that Wade is even paying attention. He's too absorbed in his very serious business, his bare feet kicked up in the air, unaware of how distracting it is for Nate to watch his toes wiggle restlessly and his feet slide against one another. The scars covering his skin are beautifully textured, they always are, and Nate wonders what it would feel like if he touched Wade's wiggly feet. If he pulled off Wade's shirt and slid his hands down his spine, or over his belly. If he pulled Wade into his lap and cupped his face. If he leaned in close enough to bite Wade's lower lip for him.

Nate breaks out of his own thoughts with a start, blinking rapidly and sucking in a silent gasp of air. He clenches his jaw shut, a little too hard, and taps the end of his pencil against the desk. "There's trouble in Rumekistan," he states, without looking at Wade. "I'm going in for recon tomorrow. There's a high chance there'll be action from hostiles. Do you think you could come with?"

He waits half a second and then looks at Wade again.

Red crayon in one hand, Wade doesn't even look up from his drawing. But he gives a thumbs-up.

Nate nods to himself and goes back to his work, very pointedly not thinking about Wade or his bare legs or his scarred lips. Not at all.

There's the soft crunch of a crayon breaking, and Nate swears he can hear Wade cursing in his head again.

 

x


	5. Chapter 5

Nate suspects that Wade didn't sleep last night. He can tell just from the restless, nervous energy that Wade radiates. That and the fact that Wade's finished three cups of coffee in two minutes.

Wade is seated at the meeting table, his feet up, staring at the ceiling. Nate hopes that he's hearing at least half of what they're talking about, because the briefing for Rumekistan is kind of important today and he hates when Wade rushes in half-cocked.

"And by the way," Irene adds when they're done discussing the details. Nate's sure that Wade didn't hear a _word_ of what they'd been saying. "You've got a package, Wade."

Wade's head jerks a little, and he sits upright, feet dropping off the table. He tilts his head, then cups his hand to his ear.

"You. Have. A. Package," Irene repeats.

Wade makes a lewd gesture.

"In the _mail room_ ," Irene growls and shields her eyes. "Wade Wilson, I will cut that hand off."

He's not listening to the not-so-empty threat – he's out of his seat, lips puckered in surprise and curiosity, and he's off to go investigate the mail room.

"You ought to look into putting a leash on him," Irene said. "Maybe a shock collar, too."

Nate ignores her comments. "If you see Wade, make sure he knows we're leaving in an hour."

~~

As it turns out, Wade is the one to find Nate first. And he's angry – he makes too good of a show of it for Nate to think otherwise. Even without his voice, Wade creates a maelstrom of a temper tantrum, slamming the door and overturning a chair in his frustration. Wade has an open cardboard box in one hand and it spews packing peanuts across the office every time he shakes it.

"Wade, enough," Nate says, trying to interrupt the theatrics. "What is it?"

Wade thrusts a hand-written card at Nate.

_Heard that you could use this._

_-The Avengers._

"The Avengers sent you something?" Nate asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Wade nods furiously and then flings his hands up again, off on another silent rant that has little foam peanuts showering everywhere. Nate dodges a flailing limb and grabs the box, peeking inside cautiously.

"A megaphone," Nate says, deadpan. Wade looks pissed. "Perhaps they misunderstood when they heard you lost your voice," he attempts, but Wade's wild eyes stop him. He knows very well that the news has spread like wildfire throughout the costumed community. It's everywhere on the Infonet. It's on Facebook. There's little sympathy to go around, but a lot of laughter. Who knew that the greatest gift to mutant-kind would be Wade Wilson's silence?

"Well," Nate puts the box aside. "You'll get the last laugh after tomorrow."

Wade's face momentarily darkens at the reminder of the surgery, but then he brightens and flexes. Nate rolls his eyes, but can't help but smile to see Wade's mood lighten.

"Get your gear," Nate says, interrupting Wade's gloating. "As soon as you're ready, we're headed to Rumekistan. Remember this is a surveillance and diplomatic expedition first."

 

~~~

 

Ten seconds into the expedition, diplomacy is out the window.

As soon as Nate and Wade arrive, the territory becomes a war zone. Both men know that they have to clean house.

Ten minutes later, Nate has a shrapnel wound in his shoulder. It doesn't feel life-threatening, but it's a big hole... he can't tell how big exactly, there's too much blood and not enough time to focus on little things. He has to concentrate on using his power to keep the techno-organic virus out of the wound. Too much of his body already has the infection replacing his flesh with metal and he isn't willing to let it spread further. He can't see where Wade is, so he has to focus on saving himself and as many other lives as he can.

Several civilians are caught in the war zone – enemies using them as human shields and hostages, trying to put innocent blood on Nathan's hands. They don't understand how accurate a shot Nathan is.

Four hours later, the crisis is over. A few of the enemies got away, but a large number surrendered and the majority are dead. Two civilian casualties, but all the rest are safe. Many of these people are asking to officially join Rumekistan, or even immigrate to Providence. He'll accept as many as he can.

Nate can tell where Wade has been – it seems like the katanas were his weapons of choice today. But Nate can't find Wade. He follows the trail of destruction, half expecting Wade to pop out of nowhere, cracking a one-liner as usual (it takes him a second to remember that Wade won't be telling jokes for a while), but he's nowhere to be seen.

Another hour passes. He's covered more ground than it feels like he should have needed to. He's picked through wreckage and ruins, without any sight of Wade. He's shouted for him, he's asked the locals if they remember where he went, and he's tried reaching out with his telepathy, but all his scouring is coming up empty. This isn't funny. Every time he sees something red his stomach feels sick and he forces himself to examine it until he's sure that it isn't a chunk of Wade.

Until he picks up a piece of something, and realizes that it _is_. Wade, that is. A fleck of red spandex and a sliver of flesh. Nate glances around, searching for other signs, and finds... more... pieces... of Wade. It's impossible. There's no way that Wade even made it this far during the fighting. But the blood disagrees.

Nate shouts for him again, stopping to listen for... anything. He knows there won't be a shout back, but maybe a sound of some sort...

And then by chance, Nate stumbles across Wade in the ruins of a building. He's mostly whole, thankfully, and he's conscious, sitting upright and trying to reassemble his left leg so the healing factor can kick in. His costume is in tatters, as if Wade had stepped on some sort of landmine. Likely because he had.

"Wade... didn't you hear me?" Nate questions. His head feels light for some reason.

Wade looks surprised to see Nate – apparently he hadn't. Maybe he'd just regained consciousness, or maybe an explosion deafened him. But there's no need for blame and they're both wrecked. Nate helps Wade gather the largest pieces of his leg and then bodyslides them back to Providence.

 

~~~

 

Wade is a miracle. There's no other way to describe him. Nate knew this already, but it never ceases to amaze him how quickly Wade can heal. Ten minutes after returning home, Wade walked out of the emergency center and back to his apartment. Nate was still having shrapnel dug out of his arm.

Wade doesn't come over to his apartment that night, but when Nate wakes up in the morning, he's just there, sitting in the living room, watching cartoons. It's far from surprising to see him, but something still clenches in his chest at the sight of Wade, and there's a smile that won't leave his lips.

Nate doesn't greet Wade, or say anything at all. There's no need for it. He left his door unlocked for a reason – because Wade was welcome to come in whenever he liked.

Slowly, Nate putters around the kitchen, wincing when he tries to use his sore arm. For the first time in ages, he feels a little... old. But the troubling thought doesn't linger long. There are other things to worry about.

Nate makes himself a cup of coffee. None for Wade. Caffeine is the last thing he needs today, and that's exactly what Nate tells him when Wade sees the mug in his hand and gives him an accusing look.

"You can't eat anything yet, Wade," Nate reminds him. "When we get back I'll cook you whatever you want."

Wade raises his hand out to Nate, his pinky finger extended. It takes Nate a long few seconds to understand why, and he doesn't miss Wade rolling his eyes in amusement at the length of time it takes him to figure it out. "Yes, Wade, I pinky swear," Nate sighs, extending his pinky finger in the same way. He expects the gesture to be enough, but Wade clucks his tongue at him and crawls over the back of the couch, stretching until he hooks their little fingers together and shakes Nate's hand, like it's a solemn vow.

"I'll cook you whatever I have available in my kitchen and is physically possible for you to digest," Nate clarifies, but Wade wags his finger at him and turns back around on the couch to watch more cartoons. With a sigh, Nate reassures himself that if Wade comes up with a request too outrageous he can always be distracted.

They have fifteen minutes to kill, and time seems so slow, and yet so scarce. Nate can't help but wonder how Wade feels. He looks calm, but he's too still, too tense. He wishes he could reassure his best friend, but talking about the surgery at all would probably just make things worse. Wade's anxiety seems to be a little contagious. Nate ends up pouring the rest of his coffee down the drain.

He knows that physically Wade will be just fine. What he worries about is his friend's state of mind.

"You ready to go?" Nate finally asks, because the time is approaching for them to go face this thing and there's no use in trying to avoid it. Wade shakes his head 'no', but stands up anyway.

"It'll be fine," Nate assures him. "You had your leg blown off last night – this is nothing compared to that. And I'll be in the OR with you." Wade gives Nate a surprised, questioning look. "Yes, really. You can't have normal anesthesia, so that's what I'll be there for. That and to keep an eye on everything. Make sure they don't accidentally book you for a penectomy."

Wade punches Nate in the arm, but he can't help but copy Nate's smirk. It keeps him in a good mood until they arrive in the med bay. And then the mood dissolves.

Everything is sterile and cold in the medical rooms. But at least this is Providence, and Nate is here, and everything is okay. But with each passing moment, it's harder to remember that.

He hates the brightness and the white walls and the surgical steel. He hates that Nate is busy talking to the staff. He hates that he really wants Nate to reassure him or something – he's not a kid, he should be over this by now. And he hates when he has to undress and put on a paper gown, and hates all the little wires they clip or glue to him to monitor him. And he really, really hates how doctors all look the same when you're on the table and they're staring down at you, ready to cut you open and see what's going on inside.

"We're ready," the doctor says, looking at Nate for confirmation.

Wade's not. He's really not. His stomach is in twists and his hands feel shaky and he's just grateful that the woman monitoring his heart rate has no idea what normal is for him – his heart rate was so high already that she called him "hummingbird" as an endearment when they were getting ready.

He's not ready.

 ** _You're worrying over nothing, Wade,_** a voice in his head says. It's not one of the little boxes – they still can't speak, either. It's that deep, irritatingly soothing voice of Nate's. In his head. But Wade doesn't think that Nate can hear his thoughts back, because he isn't answering the question about whether or not there'll be ice cream after this bullshit.

 ** _I'm going to take all the pain away,_** Nate promises, like he thinks he's Jesus or something. And he must be, because Wade can feel him in his mind in strange ways, and then it feels like a dimmer switch is being turned on his nerve endings. All the feedback nullifies, fading away until Wade's skin feels strange and pleasant, like he's been submerged in soothing water. It takes him a while to realize that he can still feel the table he's on – Nate's only taken away the constant cancer pain so far.

 ** _And I'm going to help you sleep,_** Nate adds. **_When you wake up it'll be all over._**

That sounds pretty good, actually. Nate's presence is thicker in his head, but nice. It's like a warm blanket coming over him, wrapping him up, and that blanket is Nate's mind, and that's awesome. And the dimmer switch goes all the way down to nothing, and now the world is dark and warm and quiet but he's not alone because Nate is there. And the darkness becomes a dream, but it's also Nate's dream, and in Nate's dream they drink tea because he's a great big pansy and when Wade wakes up, he's going to _tell_ him exactly that and _laugh_ at him.

There's so many people he's going to tell.

 

x


	6. Chapter 6

Nate's voice returns to Wade's head after what feels like an eternity.

**_It's over, Wade,_** Nate says. **_When you wake up, don't try to speak._**

The blackness over Wade's mind melts away like snow, and reality returns, along with all the pain and brightness. Wade sits up, aching, the fluttering anxiety returning to his chest, but then he sees Nate and it's like his presence is a soothing balm. He remembers what Nate told him – not to try speaking – and touches his throat. There are some bloody bandages that he peels off and tosses into the trash, but his throat is already healed from the operation. On the outside, anyway. Inside still feels kind of sore and he wonders what they had to do.

Nate gives Wade a strange smile and tosses his clothes at him. "Get dressed, ok?"

Wade nods and immediately gets up to dress while Nate steps out of the room.  If Nate thinks Wade is going to stick around a second longer than necessary, he's crazy. Wade finds his own way out of the medical bay, and only gives Nate a passing glare as a hint that he'd better keep up or find him later.

Nate finishes the paperwork or whatever and quickly catches up with Wade, who's trying to get an elevator out of this hell hole.

"It's past lunch," Nate says, and Wade is disoriented by how much time he's lost. "You hungry?"

Wade doesn't need to nod – of _course_ he's hungry. Nate knows this and when they return to his apartment, he seems intent on making Wade a feast fit for a king. "How about a late breakfast?" Nate suggests, already reaching for the eggs in his fridge. As disorientated as Wade feels, it's actually the perfect idea, so he simply sits down at the kitchen's island, watching Nate cook.

Cooking is one of Nate's favorite hobbies. It's a good distraction, and right now he needs one more than ever. He isn't sure what to say to Wade, so instead he keeps himself busy - cracking eggs, frying bacon, and making pancakes. After everything Wade's been through, he's feeling generous. It's simple enough, but he knows that Wade rarely makes the effort to prepare himself a real meal. The last time he saw Wade cook something, he was trying to fit a pork chop into an Easy-Bake Oven.

The air smells amazing and by the time it's done Wade is practically drooling, his stomach making more noise than he has in almost a week. Nate scoops overly large portions onto his plate, and serves it to him with both maple syrup and ketchup, just the way Wade likes it.

Wade eats like a wild animal. He downs everything, and then has seconds. Nate isn't much for breakfast food, but he does occasionally steal a piece of bacon off Wade's plate, which makes Wade blink in surprise and then grin. Nate cooks more, and the mercenary keeps shoveling it in until his growling hunger is appeased, and then he's down to his third helping with some bits of egg still left on his plate, and he's picking at it because he's finally full. But Nate is still keeping himself busy – scraping the pans and then cleaning them, cleaning everything, even cleaning the stove and the sink after he's done washing dishes. It's almost like he's trying to avoid talking to Wade.

Wade finds a pen and pad while Nate is scrubbing, and has to tap the big guy on the shoulder to finally get his attention.

HOW LONG TIL I HEAL UP? Is what the pad says, but Nate barely glances at it, and then stares at Wade for a long time, but at his lips instead of his eyes.

Wade blinks, then starts to write YOU GONNA KISS ME OR SOMETHING? on the pad, but Nate stops him.

"Wade," Nate begins, "they... they didn't end up doing anything. They looked, and said that there wasn't anything left to work with. I'm sorry."

Wade pauses, waiting for the punch line. Where's the laugh track? Then he frowns and shakes his head, but it still doesn't make sense.

"I'm sorry," Nate repeats. "They made every effort. I made sure of it. But there was..."

Wade doesn't need to hear the 'but'. He isn't listening anymore. He's just staring at his plate, wondering how this is possible.

Nate stops talking, well aware that Wade doesn't want to hear the poor excuses.

"I'll figure something out," Nate promises.

Wade just shrugs and stands up slowly – his head feels light for some reason – and leaves.

The silence in his absence feels consuming.

 

~~~

 

Nate is swamped with work. He has to focus on the political and legal fallout of the recent fight near Rumekistan, paying the very expensive doctors who had come to Providence, as well as the increase in immigration to the island, political unrest in the world, council meetings, updates on anti-mutant factions, organizing the upcoming elections in Rumekistan and single-handedly trying to reorganize the previous government system into one that was ready for democracy, miscellaneous hand-shaking, ego-stroking, the occasional death threats against him and the people under his protection, and current events in Providence and the rest of the world.

All of this he can handle any given day. All of this he _does_ handle any given day, and more. He's used to all the usual politics and obligations that comes with running two different nations. He's used to the surprises, the complications, the heavy political opposition and even the threats that occasionally are attempted to be carried out. But today his mind is elsewhere. He's worried about Wade, and it makes it hard to focus on anything. But the sooner all of this is done...

"He's not even wrecking the island," Irene says, interrupting Nathan's fragile concentration.

"What?"

"Your boyfriend," Irene clarifies. "He hasn't gone on a rampage on the island."

"He isn't my boyfriend."

Irene lifts an eyebrow at him but continues, "He hasn't even left his apartment."

Nathan sighs. "I know."

"I'm worried," Irene says. "Idiotic Wade I can deal with. Quiet, mopey Wade scares the bejeesus out of me. Go and check on him."

Jesus, didn't she realize that he wants to? "There's still a lot to do," Nate reminds her.

"Nate, I'm giving you an excuse to go," Irene says. "If you want more of a reason – you're completely distracted today. I'll get more done if you go and let me handle things myself. So go."

"Some of these demand my personal-"

"You can sign your name to it later," Irene rolls her eyes. "There's no reason for you to stay here. Go see Wade. Cheer him up before he snaps or something."

Irene hates to be wrong – she refuses to ever give up on what she wants once she makes up her mind. Today Nathan is more than happy to concede to her commands.

Nate stands – (maybe a little too abruptly) – and hugs Irene in appreciation – (maybe a little too tightly) – then leaves the office.

 

~~

 

Wade's apartment is much smaller than Nate's, and feels even more cramped with the scattered mess of old clothes, magazines, food wrappers, weapons and more. Nate had tried to offer maid services to Wade the first time he ever came to Providence, but the mercenary refused, claiming that he had everything meticulously laid out the way he liked it. And even after Nate had kicked Wade off the island, the room had remained untouched. Nate still isn't sure if he'd left it alone because he knew that Wade would eventually come back, or if he was scared that he wouldn't. Either way, it was Wade's, without question. Even Irene had never bothered him once about cleaning it out. She knew him too well.

Some kind of game show is playing on the TV, providing the only real source of light in the apartment. Nate can see Wade slumped on the couch, nearly curled in on himself. Nate steps closer. Wade looks exhausted. He doesn't acknowledge Nate, just stares at the TV, but he isn't watching it. His mind is somewhere far away. There are a few knives on the couch and other implements, and lots of dried blood. He doesn't know what Wade had been trying to do and doesn't particularly want to think about it. At all.

The only thing that keeps this scene from being entirely creepy are the slow, steady breaths that Wade keeps pulling in and letting out. Breaths that he forces to stay even, but there's a tension in every muscle of his body.

Nate sweeps the sharp instruments far away, ignoring the unease that they cause him. Reminds himself that physically, Wade is safe. Physically, Wade needs no protecting. But other than that, Wade is only human, and even though he can't die, he can break.

"Wade," Nate says quietly, settling in the space next to his friend. Then he repeats his name, louder and firmer, sensing that Wade needs the noise, needs him to speak for both of them. "This isn't the end of the world. It isn't the end of anything. It's just a speed bump. Do you understand?"

Wade doesn't look at him, his eyes focused on the floor instead.

"Wade, do you understand me?"

Wade nods shakily and moves his hand in an arcing motion, as if trying to say something that Nate doesn't understand. He stops suddenly, trying to appear casual when he touches the bridge of his nose, attempting to subtly wipe his eyes.

Nate can't help it – he reaches out to console Wade, putting his hand across the other man's shoulders. And Wade moves instantly, lurching across the space and clutching his friend in a tight hug. He's shaking, and Nate squeezes him hard and tries to soothe away the trembling.

"I'm not gonna let you stay like this," Nate promises. "No matter what it takes."

Wade makes a breathy noise against his ear, and something hot spills down the side of Nate's neck. He feels like glass in Nate's arms, and all the little fractures have become too much – he shatters completely.

All Nate can do is try to hold the pieces together while Wade buries his wet face against his neck. He can feel the empty, voiceless sobbing.

"You're okay. Just breathe," Nate murmurs, his voice made soft to comfort Wade in the same way as his fingertips making repetitive trails on the smaller man's back.  He likes how warm Wade is in his arms. Likes how Wade's chest expands as he breathes in. How he smells like dried blood and pancake syrup. He's highly aware of every single point on Wade's body where they are pressed together.  Thinks that he can feel Wade's lips resting against his neck, against his pulse, where his heart is pounding.

Nate could hold onto him forever. And if Wade needs him to, then he will.

But this is Wade. And although he can be broken, he heals so quickly.

In the next moment, a sort of unexpected calm washes over the mercenary. Nate can feel the tension in Wade's body ease. And then his head is no longer against Nate's neck – he's sitting back and staring at Nate and all Nate can think about is how those scarred lips would feel against his, and then Wade is kissing him, hard and soft, begging and demanding, asking and taking all at once.

Nate lets Wade set the pace, only kissing back to match him, to taste Wade's sugar-sweet tongue, and to occasionally urge him on by pushing forward against Wade's mouth.

When Wade pulls away, he's flush and panting, lips parted, eyes dilated and blinking at Nate widely. This is Wade flustered and just-kissed, and Nate realizes that he loves that look on Wade. But Wade seems to be thinking too much. Nate corrects this problem, pressing his lips to Wade's again for a slower, tender kiss. His hand cups the back of Wade's head, thumb stroking gently over sensitive skin. This is what he's always wanted. He could stay like this forever.

 

x


	7. Chapter 7

Tender is nice, but Wade doesn't want tender anymore – he wants passionate. He wants to feel alive, to reclaim his space in the world, to know that he still exists. He's wanted this for ages, but he never dreamed that it would get past the censors.

Wades opens and reshapes the kiss, pushing insistently against Nate until the larger man yields and returns the intensity. Instead of tender now it's almost obscene. He's had dreams like this. Somewhere in the back of his head, Wade wonders if this is just another dream as well, but if it is, it's a damn good one and he doesn't want it to stop. He slides onto Nate's lap and further into his arms, kissing him and rocking against him until they are both hard and all that Nate can coherently think is that he needs to see more of Wade.

Wade's t-shirt looks even better when Nate peels it off of him and tosses it onto the floor. Nate slides his hands over the planes of soft, muscled flesh, drinking in the sight of him, and then leans forward to kiss Wade's skin. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs against Wade's chest. Wade's body is hot against him, and firm, and he's flushed and panting, exactly the way Nate had always envisioned him. The only difference is, he imagined Wade being much louder, and needing to shut him up with a kiss, but no first time is ever perfect.

It's awkward at first, their hands fumbling, unsure of who should be doing what. They bump into each other in haste to remove layers of clothes. Wade manages to get Nate's shirt off, and then clasps Nate in another kiss, this time almost vicious, his hands clenching in Nate's short hair, his teeth biting his bottom lip, making him groan. Wade's hands disappear, and then make themselves busy again, pulling savagely at Nate's belt until it unfastens.

Then the kiss breaks, and Wade is suddenly slipping out of Nate's arms and onto the floor, kneeling between his legs-

"No," Nate stops Wade before he can go any further. "No, Wade. I don't want you doing that."

Wade looks as if he's been physically struck, hurt and fury crossing his face instantly. He tries to pull away, but Nate grabs him and drags him back up so he can calm the sudden rage and try to make him understand.

"Not this time," Nate murmurs between kisses. "That's not how I want it to be. I want you in my arms. In my bed. Is that okay?"

Wade nods, and Nate kisses him again while his hands work to remove the rest of his clothes, and Wade wants to help because his skin is suddenly too _hot_ but when his naked thighs settle against Nate again it's still not enough and he can feel Nate against him, but he needs _skin_ , and-

And Nate picks him up, and it's hot and amazing and _good_ to be carried in Nate's arms.

"Bodyslide by two," Nate murmurs, and god bless future tech because it transports them directly to Nate's bedroom. Wade loses all sense of direction and anything else besides _Nate_ and then he's dropped unceremoniously onto the bed, and he's tangled in himself and panting but he's in _Nate's_ bed and Nate is smiling at him with a lascivious 'I-like-what-I-see' grin but all that Nate could possibly see is naked, naked Wade and nobody ever smiles about that, and then Nate is _crawling_ onto the bed and covering his body with his own, and, god, _Nate_ \--

~

Nate's always wanted this – to pick Wade up and just toss him into his bed. And it's everything he ever dared to imagine, and more. Wade flops bonelessly onto the bed, and squirms, and then looks up at Nate with lust-laden eyes, and Wade's legs just sprawl open for him, a picture of beautiful _want-need._

It's an invitation he can't refuse, and Nate wastes no time to settle between those thighs. He briefly thinks it's a wonderful thing that he hasn't taken his own pants off yet, or he wouldn't be able to resist – he'd already be inside Wade without further hesitation. But maybe that's what Wade wants anyway, because his thighs are squeezing him, trying to draw him closer, and he's making glorious little breathy sounds, and he's so _hard_ in Nate's hand and writhing against him, but Nate still has to ask-

"Is this what you want?" Nate questions, wrapping his hand around Wade's erection and stroking his thumb across the slick tip. "Or do you want me inside of you?" he's prepared to play twenty questions, to ask any multitude of things to see what Wade will allow, but Wade nods immediately, with unbridled enthusiasm, and wraps his legs tighter around Nate's waist, rolling their hips together.

"Christ, Wade," Nate breathes, and drops his head to kiss Wade's neck, to suck at the pulse point that's fluttering under his lips like a caged bird. He only leaves Wade long enough to fully undress and find some proper lubricant and then he's between Wade's thighs again, pulling him further apart, slicking his fingers and opening Wade up.

Wade is so _noisy_ , in his own way. His breaths are gasping and loud and he shudders and claws at the sheets while Nate's fingers press so intimately inside of him. Eventually he opens up to take three of Nate's thick fingers, and when Nate thrusts them in and out, Wade pushes back against him, his legs shaking. Nate can't handle just feeling with his fingertips any longer. He withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up, then starts to cover Wade's body with his own, ready to simply mount him and _take_. 

For a moment, he's completely lost to the primal side of his brain, thinking only in terms of flesh, but a soft gasp beneath him brings him back to reality, reminding him that there's more to consider than just his own pleasure. And maybe what he wants is exactly what Wade wants, but he can't be sure. Wade can't exactly voice any discomfort, and Nate's telepathy doesn't exactly work on him.

Nate forces himself to stop while he still can. "Are you sure?" he asks, nearly shaking with the effort to keep himself from sinking against Wade, and into him.

Wade answers by lifting his hips impatiently, grinding against Nate's stomach and leaving a damp trail. Nate gets the hint, but Wade doesn't stop there, grabbing handfuls of Nate's ass and squeezing.

"Okay, okay," Nate laughs, and Wade is grinning like a loon. Nate uses one hand to push Wade's thigh back, holding him open, and the other to guide himself in. He slides against him at first, a false start, and Nate swears he can hear Wade laughing at him for it, but on the second try he hits his mark and Wade's body opens up for him and that grin finally falters, replaced by a breathy noise.

Wade wraps around him tighter, his hands stroking down the planes of Nate's back – one side solid muscle, the other techno-organic metal. Nate starts to press in, slowly, keeping himself as still as possible while Wade pants and sighs and gasps underneath him, allowing him to adjust to the stretch. Halfway, Nate stops and pulls back. Wade lets out a heavy, annoyed sigh, trying to spur Nate on with his heels, and then Nate sinks in again, this time so much easier, filling him even deeper than before and Wade makes a strangled, airy sound until Nate is finally still against him again. All the way inside.

 _Inside_ of him. Nate. Inside. Guh. He feels so open and _full_ and it's _Nate_ who's finally touching him in ways he never thought possible, and it's even better than he imagined, because he _did_ imagine – God, he imagined – but his imagination is so, so poor compared to the real thing.

"Are you okay?" Nate asks, a hand stroking over Wade's cheek, and Wade realizes that his eyes had fallen shut. Worse – his eyes are broken. They've leaked a trail of wetness down his cheek that Nate brushes away. So embarrassing.

Wade nods, and Nate smiles at him, and Wade has to look away because it _hurts_ so much – his chest feels so tight and heavy because this is what he's always wanted. But he doesn't want to look away. Instead he looks down – down to where his hips are rolled up, and Nate is seated so deeply inside of him – and he pulls on Nate's hips, encouraging him to move.

So Nate moves, starting slowly and building into a steady pace that is unhurried but relentless. It feels as if Nate is trying to destroy him, to drive him insane, inch by exquisite inch. Wade is alive with noise – whimpers and moans and words that are little more than gasps of air, but Nate can understand them all, can learn how to move in ways that makes Wade even more talkative.

Neither of them can understand why they've never done this before.

Nate lowers his head, placing kisses on Wade's trembling chest, every breath tense and shaky. "Let go. I've got you," Nate murmurs against his skin, wrapping his hand around Wade and stroking firmly. "I want to see you come."

Just those words, and Wade can't hold off any longer – he unravels, shuddering underneath Nate and shooting sticky trails between their bodies.

And suddenly Nate is on him, shoulders hunched low, face buried against Wade's neck while his hips jerk against him with powerful, almost punishing thrusts. Dazed, Wade brings his hand to Nate's head, petting his hair and then gripping the short grey strands tightly. His mind is all _Yes, yes, yes!_ and Wade wishes he could vocalize his encouragement. Nate would probably turn scarlet. It's all he can do to just hold on and ride out his pleasure while Nate finishes inside of him.

~

It feels like hours until Nate finally releases Wade from his grasp and lifts his head. There are bruises on Wade's skin for sure, but they'll be gone within moments. What will stay – he hopes – is the look in Wade's eyes. Something beyond the bliss of sexual satisfaction. Something that makes Nate's chest hurt. Something that urges him to lean down and kiss Wade.

Wade's lips are soft and scarred, and his mouth is as hot and wet and inviting as the rest of him. Nate moves carefully, slipping out of Wade as he does so and earning a little sigh, but Wade captures his mouth again, kissing him like the only air left in the room is in Nate's lungs. 

They disentangle and shift until Nate is finally lying down, and Wade is lying half on top of him, his head resting on Nate's chest.

For a long time they just breathe, and Nate strokes Wade's shoulder in repetitive soothing motions – which of them he's soothing he isn't sure. All he can think about clearly is that he must be stupid to have almost convinced himself that this was impossible, that Wade would never feel the same. He can't help but wonder how long they both might have kept dancing around it, too stubborn and afraid to cross the line.

Then Wade moves, just a little, just enough to scoot down in bed and start placing kisses on Nate's chest. Nate laughs and pulls him up, but Wade keeps kissing whatever skin he can reach, apparently doing his impression of a suckerfish.

"I love you, too," Nate says, petting Wade's head. 

Wade blinks at him and then smiles and stretches up to kiss Nate yet again, on the lips. Wade lingers, sighing softly and tasting, and then shuffles down alongside him, lifting one of Nate's arms and moving it to hug him. Nate takes the hint and squeezes him tightly. He holds Wade in his arms for the rest of the night.

 

x


End file.
